TEACHERS OF HUMILITY. The Purple Dead-Nettle. A LITTLE herb of dark-red hue On sunny bank it verdant grew In yonder hazel balk. Not earliest of the spring it blows, Yet earlier few appear; Scarce melted have rough winter's snows When it adorns the year. It is not as a primrose sweet, It is not as a cowslip neat,- I know not if an ass or sheep And men will never care to reap, But class it among weeds. G It is a weed! Then why not throw And in its place let others grow, No let it be! Despise it not, For even this, to please receives I've seen an insect on its leaves, A bee upon its flower. REV. J. RICHARDSON. 66 To the Round-leaved Sundew. Y the lone fountain's secret bed Where human footsteps rarely tread, 'Mid the wild moor or secret glen The Sundew blooms unseen by men ; Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue, A chalice for the morning dew; And ere the summer's sun can rise Drinks the pure waters of the skies. "Would'st thou that thy lot were given Thus to receive the dews of heaven With heart prepar'd, like this meek flower? "Yes: like the blossoms of the waste, So shall we find the streams of heaven S. M. WARING. The Lark and Nightingale. HE bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that doth most sweetly sing Sings in the shade, when all things rest: In lark and nightingale we see What honour hath humility. When Mary chose the "better part," She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; Was made for God's own temple meet: Fairest and best adorn'd is she Whose clothing is humility. The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown In deepest adoration bends; The weight of glory bows him down Then most when most his soul ascends : Nearest the throne itself must be The footstool of humility. MONTGOMERY. The Dobe of the Valley. "But they that escape of them shall escape, and shall be on the mountains, like doves of the valley, all of them mourning every one for his iniquity." RT thou an emblem, gentle, guileless bird, Of human hearts lamenting sin and strife? And gladly, as thy low sweet song is heard, Are groaning prayers heard in the land of life? Yes Heaven, unfrowning, hears each bitter tale The world's proud anger would command to cease; Listens to guilt and grief as in the vale, To thy blent strain of pensiveness and peace. Oh, joy! oh, glory! wondrous and yet true, And God receive whom man will scarce forgive! Then, wounded bird, struck by the archer, Sin,— M. J. JEWSBURY. R Robins, and their Song. OBIN, to the bare bough clinging, What can thy blithe music mean? What warm nest for thee hath nature |